


we built sandcastles...

by glittercake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Flashbacks, Flashbacks and Memories, Getting Together, High School Reunion, M/M, Mild Angst, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercake/pseuds/glittercake
Summary: Steve remembers tackling guys out of Sam's way and Sam's glorious touchdown that followed, the way they clung to each other as the crowd cheered and chanted their names. He remembers the joy and pride of hoisting Sam up on his shoulders to show off their star player. "Eyes on your best guy!" Coach always told them, as if Steve's eyes were ever elsewhere.Most of all, Steve remembers the day he realized that what he felt for Sam wasn’t just admiration. It wasn’t just camaraderie, or respect or friendship. Everybody loved Sam Wilson.And so did Steve.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 111





	we built sandcastles...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NachoDiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NachoDiablo/gifts).



> Wrote this for my 100th fic giveaway (which I have now surpassed) that Nacho won!
> 
> Also, this is my first Sam/Steve, so be gentle with me ^_^
> 
> Another thing: I know zero about the football of which I've written so liberally here lol.

Steve stares at the new email in his inbox. It's suddenly real hard to swallow. His heart ticks up just a little.

He'd been expecting it, but God, has it been ten years already? Feels wrong that so much time has gone by. Slowly he clicks and opens it.

Brooklyn Ridge High: 10 Year Reunion. 

“Fuck.” He sits back and stares at the boldly decorated invite in royal blue and gold, adorned with footballs and pom-poms, streamers and balloons. If he closes his eyes, he's right back there in an instant. 

Just like that, memories of early morning mist and floodlights and the smell of the wet football field come flooding back. The scent of sunbaked asphalt in the lot where they always hung out. In fact, the whole school is still mapped out in his mind's eye. 

And, not surprising at all, the very first person that he sees is Sam Wilson. Steve sees him in vivid color, wearing his senior jacket, his washed-out jeans and crisp white sneakers. That smile. That goddamn smile. 

He still remembers exactly how deep Sam's dimple went, and the little spark of amber in his left eye, even the cut on his brow from that one football injury. He remembers _everything._

He remembers lapping Sam around the field and looking back, cackling at the scowl on Sam's face after the third "on your left" that morning. 

He remembers their shenanigans in the steamy locker rooms, how they whipped each other with wet towels, and walked about half-naked and unashamed. They always messed around like that after practice, shit-talking and laughing at each other’s dumb dick jokes, making plans for the weekend. They’d all get riled up before games, then deliriously celebrate after a win. 

He remembers tackling guys out of Sam's way and Sam's glorious touchdown that followed, the way they clung to each other as the crowd cheered and chanted their names. He remembers the joy and pride of hoisting Sam up on his shoulders to show off their star player. "Eyes on your best guy!" Coach always told them, as if Steve's eyes were ever elsewhere.

Steve remembers parties at Buck's house after the games. The music was so loud, you’d feel it vibrate through you from a mile away. There’d be people dancing around the pool, girls balancing on boys’ shoulders in the water. He remembers how Sam would get there and greet everyone, but saved Steve for last; he'd shake everyone's hand as they congratulated him but Steve was the one he hugged once he worked his way through the crowd. Golden boy with a golden smile. 

They were each other's golden boys too. 

Most of all, Steve remembers the day he realized that what he felt for Sam wasn't just admiration. It wasn't just camaraderie, or respect or friendship. Everybody loved Sam Wilson. And so did Steve.

That day had been a revelation for him. The final realization to a lifelong question. Sure he liked girls- Peggy and Nat and Sharon. He'd even been in love with a girl once, so he knew when he started feeling that way about Sam too, that his heart beat both ways. 

With girls, it had been easy to get them to notice him: do some extra flexes on the field, follow it up with intriguing conversations, tell them they’re smart and compliment their looks, and just generally be nicer than half the guys in their grade. He had good luck with girls. 

But Sam already knew him. He knew all his tells and manners and secrets. Sam had seen him naked, seen him flex, and then laughed before lugging a football at Steve's head. Sam was harder. And still, Steve spent most of the time trying helplessly to get the point across. 

He opened doors for Sam. He bought him lunch, saved him the best seat when they watched the girls play hockey, and carried his bags. After a tough game, he'd rub out Sam's thighs and calves and find himself staring at Sam, his eyes usually closed, his lips parted, groaning quietly. 

Steve spent far too many hours staring at Sam like that, watching him sit on the outside tables telling stories, watching him run or lift weights, watching him study, and secretly rejoicing when he aced it. 

But soon things changed because of what he felt for Sam. Every time Sam swung an arm around him, Steve went all stiff, panicking, hoping Sam wouldn't somehow sniff out his secret. And that was his downfall, his undoing. Because how could a guy like Sam ever fall for Steve when he could have anyone he desired?

No matter how many mornings he woke up and said 'today's the day,' all he ever did when Sam came close, was freeze up. He resented himself for every frown he put on Sam's face because of it. Because, now the usual friendly touches to Steve's chest or biceps were much more than that to him, and he found himself shying away instead of reciprocating, blushing and deflecting instead of using the moment to make a move.

And Sam noticed. 

Sam stopped running up to Steve and lifting him off the ground at random silly moments; he stopped running track early in the mornings just to shit talk with Steve in peace and quiet, he stopped flying paper planes into Steve's head during class. He ended it all. 

Their last highschool game was when it all fell apart. 

They still played like one person, like a machine, smooth and effortless, the crowd's cheers but a faint humming in the distance. Their eyes only ever on each other. Steve ran two half backs out of the way for Sam, Riley ran up from behind and covered Sam's back—which was new, there'd never been a need for it, but there he was—and Sam touched down. 

Steve got up from his last tackle and started jogging toward Sam. He was ready then, he thought. He needed to tell Sam that he was irreparably in love with him and what better moment than amid ecstasy with the rush of victory all around them.

Only, by the time Steve worked his way through the bustle of overjoyed players, Sam was already hoisted up on Riley's shoulders. Steve looked up, and he swore time slowed as he watched Sam being swept away from him. There was a quick moment when Sam looked back at him, despondent despite the joyous time, almost beggingly, almost sad.

It hurt; it crushed him, but the real kill shot came at the after-party at Buck's place. 

Sam swaggered in there, already sipping on a bottle of Henny, his hand loosely wrapped around the bottleneck, a shiny trail of it running down his chin. Sam's eyes were cold, his face hard in the lurid party lights, far from the warmth that had always poured from him. 

Instead of heading straight for Steve, Sam pinned him with a look that Steve couldn't place. He took a long swig of the Henny, blinked slowly away from Steve and disappeared into the mill of dancing bodies. 

Later, in an attempt to salvage what was left of their friendship, Steve made his way upstairs, where he'd seen Sam heading a little earlier. 

He was ready then too to throw it all out there, admit everything and swallow up the fear that caged him in before, the fear of Sam rejecting him, of knowing how completely besotted Steve was for him.

The door to Bucky's room was cracked just a little. Steve had always gone there to get away from the crowd or sober up slightly—Sam even joined him a few times before and they posed Bucky's action figures in obscene positions for him to find the next day—so Steve pushed the door open then stopped abruptly. 

Sam's white sneakers were hooked around the back of Riley's thighs, their bodies close and grinding through their jeans. Sam's eyes were closed, and his lips parted just like they were when Steve rubbed his legs out after a game. 

He saw Riley shrugging off his jacket, grinning down at Sam in the streak of moonlight that trickled in through the window, before diving back down to his lips. 

He doesn't remember much of the haze that followed, just Natasha calling after him, T'challa grabbing his arm as he stormed out the door, and Bucky coming up to his car window and trying to talk him out of driving. 

He did anyway. He drove away, far, far out of town, and swiped a whole bottle of vodka by himself on the edge of Lover's Point, alone. The lights in the distance smudged together like a painting, pastels and metals and dark blues, and soon warm tears dripped down his cheeks. 

And even though it felt like his life had come to a grinding halt, the world did the unspeakable and kept turning. 

They went to prom, Steve got drunk while Peggy and Sam got crowned, they graduated, and their friend group spent their last day together down by the lake. 

Steve and Sam looked at everything but each other. He fucked it all up. He’d been too scared to tell Sam what he felt, he’d withdrawn instead and Sam… well Sam moved the hell on. 

He thought, stupidly, that he'd gotten over it. He was eighteen for god's sake; ten years should have done the job of healing him of his broken heart. 

But now, as he stares at the blue and gold invite on his computer screen, and feels his heart hammering behind his ribs, he knows he's far from it. 

And so, there's no way he'd even set foot at this reunion. Not even for a million bucks. 

"What about for Sam Wilson?" Natasha says to him a couple of days later, she sets her coffee mug down and tips her face up to him with a slow grin. 

Steve sips on his latte, deliberately not looking at her, who knows what his eyes might give away. "Stop that. It's not the same", he says. 

"What exactly _is_ it, Steve?" 

He knows that look on her face; it's the look of someone deathly determined to get to the bottom of something he never talks about, ever. 

The two of them stayed in contact, ended up working for the same firm, living just a few blocks from each other ever since college. And never once has he answered the question 'What happened to our golden boys?' 

"Nothing… Just…" finally, he shrugs and meets her eyes, "I don't know. Life just happened, I guess." 

"I don't know what went wrong with either one of you." she breaks off a clump of lemon poppy muffin and pops it in her mouth. "I was rooting for you two." 

Steve's head snaps up to her then, "What?" and everything spins around in a tumult of panic or maybe regret he doesn't know which. Natasha knows that he's into guys too, she was the first he told way back when, but she never knew about Sam. No one did. 

So he thought.

"Oh, come on, Steve. The way you two acted, the way you looked at him—don't goddamn blush now—the way he did everything to make you laugh. Jesus, I thought it was a done deal." Her eyes are pleading and bright green, and he's never been able to tell a goddamn lie in his life. 

After a long silence of staring each other down, Steve says, "Yeah." he rubs his face, "Me too." 

Natasha sits back then, letting out a sigh. There's a frown etched between her brows, and she looks at Steve with a mixture of pity and satisfaction of the truth on her face but says nothing else. 

He hopes she sees it now, why he can't go. 

He spends the next few weeks leading up to the reunion wandering about in the past. He dreams of high school, and Sam and winning a game. He wakes up feeling the adrenaline pulse through his blood, he feels Sam's hands on him. The craving is still alive deep inside him, the ache to kiss Sam, to know what his lips feel like, to know what their bodies would feel like pressed close. Even more potent than that is regret for letting it all slip through his fingers. 

The date creeps closer, and Natasha's begging messages become more frantic, the Facebook group that the organizers set up is buzzing with excitement. The only two not participating are Steve and Sam. 

He heard from Bucky that Sam started up a coaching club, training and developing young athletes all over the country. Buck said he's even been featured in Men's Health, that his sports club was on Young Lives a couple of months ago. So he reckons Sam's busy, that's why he's not talking in the chat, it's possible that he won't even go. Probably. 

The day of, Steve wakes up and works out and does everything he can to avoid thinking of this goddamn reunion. He cleans his apartment until not even a speck of dirt can be found, then visits his mom and gran over in Queens. 

While he's sitting with them, sipping lemonade on the balcony, the group chat goes PING. 

> _Ray Johnson: So are we seeing Super Boy tonight? @samwilson_
> 
> _Camile Parker: oh damn 😍_
> 
> _Thor Odinson: throw a football around like the old days @steverogers_
> 
> _Jessie Dalton: can't wait!_

And so it continues back and forth between his classmates. Natasha and Bucky chime in too when everyone starts sharing inside jokes and pictures of the games and parties they used to attend. 

There's one of Steve mid tackle, one of Sam jumping for the ball, one of Bucky running down the sideline about to pass to one of them. And, at last, one of Sam and Steve, both lifted in the air, holding a huge golden trophy between them. Their smiles spread wide across their faces, and they're looking at each other, sweaty and covered in mud. 

And then: 

> _Sam Wilson: You know it, baby!_

Steve's heart clenches painfully tight. He double taps out of the app, locks it, and stares at the black screen. 

"Oh, sweetheart," his mother says, "You've had that look on your face since twenty-ten."

Once he's home, he orders take out, cracks a beer open, and plants himself on the couch with his phone purposely hidden away under the cushions, on silent. 

So he's surprised when there's a knock on his door just an hour into the movie. Because of course, Natasha wouldn't just let it be; of course, she wouldn't leave him to wallow on his own instead of reminiscing about his glory days. 

The real surprise is that Bucky is standing there, grinning beside her. 

"How's it going, pal?" he says with a conniving little smirk. 

"Shit, Buck, hey!" he opens his arms, and Bucky comes in for a hug.

"Long time, huh?" Bucky pats him on the back, pulling away. 

Steve blinks, looks at Natasha, then back at Buck. "You guys look amazing!" he holds his hand out and lets Nat do a showing little twirl. 

And hell, they do look good. Nat's wearing a deep red number with a heart-shaped torso and flowing chiffon below. Bucky's in a navy blue suit, white open collar dress shirt, and his hair that had grown long is slicked back in a small ponytail. Nat has a garment bag hooked over one finger, and Buck's holding a bottle of champagne under his arm.

"You on the other hand—" Natasha says, glancing down at his bare feet, old sweats and faded Metallica T-Shirt, "—don't look like you're on your way to a fancy wine farm for our high school reunion." 

She's got that annoyingly determined look on her face. Bucky knows that look too, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets, shrugs, smirks, and pushes his way into the apartment.

Because that's what it is. Steve doesn't have a chance in hell if Nat went all the way to D.C to get Bucky, even less of a chance now that Buck is here. 

"That's probably because I ain't planning on going," he says as one last attempt, a weak attempt at that. He'd be lying if he said some part of him didn't want to go, though. 

He sighs and shows Nat inside too, "Oh, I know," she tells him, "but then this fantastic Tom Ford goes to waste." She unzips the garment bag and reveals the suit. 

"Jeez, Natasha." 

She rolls her eyes, "Jeez, _Steve."_

Bucky pops the champagne and says, "Limo's downstairs, chop-chop!"

And so that's how Steve ends up in the back of a limo on his way to a wine farm with his heart pounding and sweat forming along his hairline like a crown, and Sam Wilson's face flitting in and out of his mind as they get closer. 

The place is quite a sight. In the distance, he hears music pumping and cheery voices and knows that somewhere in the crowd, Sam is laughing and possibly at the side of his partner. 

Steve wants to say he can't do this, and he'll just wait in the limo, but Nat has slipped her arm through his, and they're following Bucky down a cobblestone walkway and past some rose bushes to the main hall that's marked "Brooklyn Ridge High."

"Quit fussing," She murmurs to him, "It'll be fine." 

But when they walk in, he thinks he's going to pass out. 

Sam's standing at the bar with Clint and T'challa and Thor, everyone turns to look and suddenly Steve's back in '09 and they've just won a game, and the crowd waits for their favorite duo to do the victory lap. 

A crackling silence falls over the room then, those who know that things went askew wait in trepidation for Sam and Steve to make a move, the ones who have no idea just stare.

And dear god, he's gorgeous, Sam. He's in a black three-piece, no tie, he's grown a goatee now, and he's staring at Steve too. Steve can't breathe in a single molecule of air. 

Finally, Sam puts his drink down, and Steve takes his first wobbly step forward. They meet in the middle of the room beside a scattering of tables, and Sam lifts his head to look up at Steve.

"Rogers," He says, straight-faced. Gorgeously straight-faced. The scar above his brow, the one under his lip, the set of his jaw, the amber spark in his left eye.

"Wilson," Steve says, and they just stand there looking at each other, taking each other in: all the years that have gone by, the marks the past has left on them both. Steve thinks the void between them is nearly palpable. 

And then Sam's lip twitches like he's trying to subdue a smile. Steve takes a deep breath and offers his hand out for a shake. He wonders if Sam can see him trembling a little.

He's shocked for a second when Sam slaps his hand away, but his smile finally breaks through, and both his arms extend outward. 

_"That's_ how you greet your best guy after ten full ones?" he says with that beautifully crackling voice, his eyes glittering like smokey quartz in the dim light. 

And probably because Steve is overcome with emotion and looking for someplace to bury his face before he does something embarrassing like cry in front of everyone, he says, "Hell no!" and throws himself into Sam's embrace. 

Just like way back, the crowd erupts in cheers and shouts and whistles, clapping and swiftly getting back to the buzz from before. 

"Come on," Sam says and takes Steve by the arm, leading him to the bar. Steve notices the light sheen of sweat that Sam wipes from his brow, and he smiles, relieved, finally after so long. 

It's a somewhat overwhelming and sweetly nostalgic reunion with all his old friends and teammates, all sharing stories of what they've been up to, introducing each other to their spouses and partners. Peggy married Daniel from the debate team, Thor and his brother seem to have sorted through their differences and T'challa and his wife are expecting their second little one. 

The shots flow in abundance, and people dance the night through; Natasha and Bucky dazzle everyone with their moves and her spinning red dress, Sam tells them about his sport's club, shows them pictures of the kids he trains. 

Steve doesn't miss how he sticks close throughout. It really does feel like the good old days with everyone hanging on Sam's words, Steve being no exception. And finally, once they've eaten, Josh Turner pulls out a football.

There's a large open lawn just outside the venue, and soon everyone follows the players out. They shrug off their jackets and assume their positions, Sam kicks it off with a 'hut hut' and then the game's on. 

Steve's muscles remember, Sam's too, and they're quick to fall back into their familiar rhythm. Steve can't help the knot in his throat when he sees Sam running with the ball, like a low sweeping bird, effortless and graceful. He falls back the way he always had, waiting for Steve to clear his path, and Steve takes out two guys, no problem, and watches Sam touch down at the far side of the lawn. 

The cheers and screams are instant; they remember too. This time Steve leaps at the chance to hoist his best guy up once again; he missed it back then. He's missed it ever since. But then Sam yelps and starts laughing, throwing his hands up and relishes in it one last time. 

When he lets Sam off his shoulders, they stand in front of each other breathless and panting. Sam's cheeks are flushed pink, and his smile is something deadly under the floodlights. 

"Drink?" Sam asks, he reaches up to pluck a blade of grass off Steve's cheek. Steve snorts and looks to the crowd, who are slowly dispersing inside again.

"Yeah, drink," he says. 

The lot of them drink and talk well into midnight, the girls are wearing the guy’s jackets, and they're all leaning up against the cars just like they had in the school's parking lot. 

Nothing's changed, Steve keeps staring at Sam. Eyes always on his best guy. This time though, he doesn't care that Sam notices. And he does notice. 

Steve knows nothing will come of it anymore. It's been too long, but he figures he'll soak it up while he can. He commits every last detail to memory, and if it takes him another ten years to not get over it at all, then so be it. 

Much later, after standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam for an hour or so, most people decide to head to their rooms. 

"Fuck, I'm beat," Sam says and nudges Steve with his elbow, "Gotta get to bed. See you for breakfast?" 

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Steve shoves his hands in his pockets and pushes off the car, "Uh, night Sam." 

Sam lingers for a split second, a flash of hesitation flits across his face, "Hey, Steve…" 

And Steve's head whips up in an instant, "Yeah?" 

"I'm glad you came." Sam smiles, soft and small, and then turns away. Steve watches him walk away into the night. And perhaps that's okay, although it rends his heart in two. They've made amends; it's alright now. 

And Steve can live with that. 

Later though, he hears a commotion at the reception desk when he passes by on the way to his room. 

"Check again." 

That's definitely Sam's voice. Steve checks it out and finds a tired-looking Sam leaning on the front desk, his jacket draped over his shoulder, and the receptionist scrambling around with the check-in book. 

"Sir, I'm so sorry, there must have been a mix up with the reservations. Yours isn't here." 

Sam drops his head in his hand, "No other rooms available?" 

She shakes her head, "I'm so sorry, we're full up tonight. We'd be happy to sponsor your Uber back home for the inconvenience." 

Steve steps up beside Sam then, surprising him, "Hey, what's up?" 

"Mix up with the rooms," Sam frowns, digging his phone out of his pocket, "I'm roomless." He smiles stiffly up at Steve.

"Well, if you want," Steve says, not knowing what the hell he's doing, but he's doing it full-on and without reservations, "Nat booked me a double, I don't mind sharing or taking the floor, or whatever. If you want to." He fiddles nervously with the keys in his hand.

Sam stares at him, those beautiful lips part, and he blinks a few times, "Uh, shit. Yeah. Yeah, are you sure?" 

"I'm sure! It'll be like away games." Steve feels his grin stretch, his cheeks now warm with the way Sam looks at him- surprised and relieved and… excited? 

It's a little awkward at first when they enter the dark room and shuffle around unpacking their overnight bags, and neither really talk aside from the whole 'no you first' dance when it comes to using the shower. 

Steve feels Sam's eyes on him when his back is turned; he feels the gaze follow him around the room as he gets settled in, the quick divert when Steve looks his way. He knows what it feels like watching someone that way, hoping they'd notice but fleeing when they do. What he doesn't get is why he's on the receiving end this time.

They've both showered and changed into softer clothes and Steve's still in thought, unnervingly trying to figure out what comes next—does he offer the bed up to Sam, does he get in and hope Sam joins, do they _both_ get in and stick to the far edges of the mattress—when Sam spins around in one swift twirl to face Steve. 

"What happened? To us," he says, rushed, running his hand over the top of his head; a deep sigh follows, and he sits down hard on the corner of the bed, "We were so—what happened? I've tried to figure it out, I've tried to remember where it went wrong. But the more time goes by, the cloudier it gets, you know? I just—"

Steve stares at Sam, sits down on the other corner, hands folded in his lap, and before Sam can finish, he says, "I was in love with you." and before he clamps up again, and despite Sam's head jerking to him, eyes wide, he adds "—that's what went wrong. And I didn't know if you'd hate me for it, so I acted like an idiot because I didn't want you finding out." 

Steve shrugs. 

"What?!" Sam blinks but otherwise doesn't move.

"And then when I finally got the balls to tell you, Riley happened." 

"Riley?" Sam says like he's parched, gaping at Steve. 

"Walked in on you two at Buck's party," Steve says, he looks at his lap, fiddling with a loose thread on his sweats. 

"Who the hell is Riley?" Sam's voice goes high; his frown is so deep when Steve looks at him, his forehead creased with lines. 

"Riley. The half-back," Steve motions to his head, "Blonde, short, big."

Sam shakes his head, "I…"

"Sam, you were all over him at Buck's party, he was on top of you…"

Sam gives a short, curt laugh, rubbing his eyes, "Yeah, I was also all over a bottle of Jack—"

"Henny—" 

"See! Dude, I don't remember—" then he stops and inhales deep and long, his eyes go liquid, and a complete vulnerability falls over him when he breathes out.

"I was in love too," Sam says then. 

Steve sags, looking away again. It hurts more than he thought it would hearing that Sam loved someone else, that he didn't feel the same, but it's out there at last. 

"Yeah. Exactly. I was pissed. Jealous. I had no right." 

"Oh for god's sake—" Sam throws his hands up, "Are you—" 

"What??" 

"You!!" Sam almost screams but quickly seems to remember they've got neighbors, "I was in love with you!! I thought you didn’t want me like that! But I loved you too!! Jesus." he's suddenly breathless, head tilted, and shaking. "Fuck, Steve??" he mumbles when all Steve does is stare at him.

It hits him like a bomb, exploding right in the core of him and shooting shrapnel into every last inch of flesh, blinding him, shocking him into stillness.

"Think I probably still am. Do you ever get over your first love?" Sam adds, his voice a little comical now, dwindling into a depreciating laugh. 

"Sam…" just a whisper of bewildered disbelief. Steve never thought he'd hear those words, the admission had been a fantasy for the longest time, but he's hearing it now. 

Sam just swallows. Words seem futile now, there's not a thing left to say about any of this. But Sam's eyes do a quick swoop down Steve's body, settling on his face again, his tongue nervously poking the corner of his mouth, which kind of says a whole lot if Steve just reads it right. 

Then he closes the space between them and gets hold of Sam's face. There's a brief pause, so close he sees Sam's pupils dilate and feels the slightest intake of breath through his parted lips before Steve kisses him.

He's got no idea how long it lasts for, only that it's so much better than he'd been dreaming of. It's a reverent kind of touch, cautious but so deeply craving that Steve has to pull away to breathe, to take it all in, which is a great thing because he finds Sam smiling when he does. 

He's smiling quietly to himself like it's a secret or something. He leans forward and rests his forehead against Steve's and brings his hand to the back of Steve's head. 

There's nothing holding Steve back anymore when Sam tilts his face up for another kiss. Steve gives it easily, happily, eagerly. 

And maybe they find themselves falling back on the mattress, and perhaps their tongues explore just a little more than each other's mouths, and just maybe Sam's name falls from Steve's lips in a hapless whisper later on. 

Eventually, after curling up together, legs tangled and chests pressed close—still kissing because it will never be enough—Steve pinches Sam's chin between his thumb and forefinger and pulls back, "Say it again." 

A satiated grin forms on Sam's lips, and without opening his eyes, he whispers, "I've always been in love with you, dumbass." 

And then Steve dives down and kisses him again and again, and then some. 

He's got ten years to make up for, after all.

* * *

It's a quiet Sunday afternoon, and the cats are asleep in beams of sunlight on the floor, the dog's dozing under the rose bushes outside, in their backyard the birds are chittering happily in the big willow tree beside the creek. 

Sam's stirring a pot of spaghetti on the stove and Steve's sifting through some paperwork at the dining room table when Sam makes a surprised, abrupt sound.

"Oh!! _That_ Riley!!" 

Steve flips another page over and signs it, "Yeah, honey, _that_ Riley." He starts folding another paper in half.

"Huh," Sam says, "He kissed good." 

And, when his head pops around the doorframe to tease Steve some more, Steve darts a folded paper plane at him. 

"Riley's next," Steve idly threatens as Sam bats the plane away. 

Then he comes sauntering over and sits down in Steve's lap—paperwork be damned—and kisses his neck.

"Don't be jealous." Sam wraps his arms around Steve's shoulders, then a little more seriously, "Eyes only on my best guy, remember."

Steve smiles, slipping his hands into the back pockets of Sam's jeans, canting his head up for a kiss. 

"Always," he says just before their lips meet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.  
> I'm on Tumblr too: [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/)


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